Chanda Katonga Poet Free verse

Count of St Germain

I was visible.
Then invisible.
A shadow that breathed.
A whisper that spoke.

For two hundred fifty years
I wandered the corridors of Europe.
But my age was older
than any calendar could hold.

I spoke every tongue.
Past tongues.
Future tongues.
Languages not yet born.

They called me
magician,
philosopher,
alchemist,
musician,
king without a crown.

They asked my age.
I answered with silence.
For the soul has no age.
Only forms,
only masks,
only returns.

I lived in the now.
I lived in what was.
I lived in what will be.
Time bowed when I passed.

I walked beside emperors.
Not for riches—
but because my energy
was its own currency.

They wondered
where I came from.
I came from the beginning.
I walked toward the end.
I circled back again.

Man feared me
because I reminded him
of himself.
Of what he could be
if he dared to awaken.

I learned this in Europe:
Man is powerful beyond measure.
But trembles
before his own reflection.

They said I was immortal.
They forgot
that immortality
is the nature of the soul.

I did not die.
I transformed.
Light becomes dark.
Dark becomes light.
Energy remembers everything.

If you seek me now,
look inward.
I am there.
As you are in me.

And when you whisper,
“Germain… who are you?”
I answer gently—

I was only God,
playing human.

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